The Lovers   ::   Фармер Филип Хосе

Then, impelled by an unexpected and unanalyzable feeling, he turned and went back to the bed and stooped over to kiss Mary. She did not wake up, and he felt regret – for a second – because she had not known what he had done. This act was no duty, no requirement. It had come from the dark depths, where there must also be light. Why had he done it? Last night, he had thought he hated her. Now...

She could not help doing what she did any more than he. That, of course, was no excuse. Every self was responsible for its own destiny; if anything good or bad happened to a self, then only one person had caused that happening.

He amended his thought. He and Mary were the generators of their own misery. But not consciously so. Their bright selves did not want their love to be wrecked; it was their dark selves – the deep-down, crouching, horrible Backrunner in them – that was causing this.

Then, as he stood by the doorway, he saw Mary open her eyes and look, somewhat confusedly, at him. And, instead of returning to kiss her again, he hastily stepped into the hallway. He was in a panic, fearing that she might call him back and begin the whole dreary and nerve-racking scene again. Not until later did he realize that he had not had a chance to tell Mary that he would be on his way to Tahiti that very morning. Oh well, he was spared another scene.

By then, the hallway was crowded with men on their way to work. Many, like Hal, were dressed in the loose plaids of the professionals. Others wore the green and scarlet of university teachers.

Hal, of course, spoke to each one.

'Good future to you, Ericssen!'

'Sigmen smile, Yarrow!'

'Did you have a bright dream, Chang?'

'Shib, Yarrow! Straight from truth itself.'

'Shalom, Kazimuru.'

'Sigmen smile, Yarrow!'

Then Hal stood by the lift doors while a keeper, on duty at this level in the morning because of the crowd, arranged the priority of their descent. Once out of the tower, Hal stepped onto a series of belts with increasingly swift speed until he was on the express, the middle belt. Here he stood, pressed in by the bodies of men and women but at ease because they belonged to his class. Ten minutes of travel, and he began to work his way through the crowd from belt to belt. Five minutes later, he stepped off onto the sidewalk and walked into the cavernous entrance of Pali No. 16, University of Sigmen City.

Inside, he had to wait, though not for long, until the keeper had ushered him into the lift. Then, he went straight up on the express to the thirtieth level. Usually, when he got out of the lift, he went directly to his own office to deliver his first lecture of the day, an undergraduate course which went out over tridi. Today, Hal headed for the dean's office.

On the way, craving a cigarette and knowing that he could not smoke it in Olvegssen's presence, he stopped to light one and to breathe in the delicious ginseng smoke. He was standing outside the door of an elementary class in linguistics and could hear snatches of Keoni Jerahmeel Rasmussen's lecture.

'Puka and pali were originally words of the primitive Polynesian inhabitants of the Hawaiian Islands. The English-speaking people who later colonized the islands adopted many terms from the Hawaiian language; puka, meaning hole, tunnel, or cave, and pali, meaning cliff, were among the most popular.

'When the Hawaiian-Americans repopulated North America after the Apocalyptic War, these two terms were still being used in the original sense. But, about fifty years ago, the two words changed their meanings. Puka came to be applied to the small apartments allotted to the lower classes, obviously in a derogatory sense. Later, the term spread to the upper classes. However, if you are a hierach, you live in an apartment; if you belong to any class below the hierarchy, you live in a puka.

Pali, which meant cliff, was applied to the skyscrapers or to any huge building. It, unlike puka, also retains its original meaning.'

Hal finished his cigarette, dropped it in an ashtray, and walked on down the hall to the dean's office. There he found Doctor Bob Kafziel Olvegssen sitting behind his desk.

Olvegssen, the senior, spoke first, of course. He had a slight Icelandic accent.

'Aloha, Yarrow. And what are you doing here?'

'Shalom, abba. I beg your pardon for appearing before you without an invitation. But I had to arrange several matters before I left.'

Olvegssen, a gray-haired middle-aged man of seventy, frowned.

'Left?'

Hal took the letter from his suitcase and handed it to Olvegssen.

'You may process it yourself later, of course. But I can save you valuable time by telling you it's another order to make a linguistic investigation.'

'You just got back from one!' said Olvegssen. 'How can they expect me to run this college efficiently and to the glory of the Sturch if they continually drag my staff away on wild word chases?'

'You're surely not criticizing the Urielites?' said Hal, not without a touch of malice. He did not like his superior, try though he had to overcome this unrealistic thinking on his part.

'Harumph! Of course not! I am incapable of doing so, and I resent your imputation that I might be!'

'Your pardon, abba,' said Hal. 'I would not dream of hinting at such a thing.'

'When must you leave?' said Olvegssen.

'On the first coach. Which, I believe, takes off in an hour.'

'And you will return?'

'Only Sigmen knows. When my investigation and the report are finished.'

'Report to me at once when you return.'

'I beg your pardon again, but I can't do that. My M.R. will be long overdue by then, and I am compelled to clear that out of the way before I do anything else. That may take hours.'

Olvegssen scowled and said, 'Yes, your M.R. You didn't do so well on your last, Yarrow. I trust your next shows some improvement. Otherwise . . .'

Suddenly, Hal felt hot all through his body, and his legs quivered.

'Yes, abba?'

His own voice sounded weak and distant. Olvegssen made a steeple of his hands and looked at Yarrow over the tip.

'Much as I would regret it, I would be forced to take action. I can't have a man with a low M.R. on my staff. I'm afraid that I...'

There was a long silence. Hal felt the sweat trickling down from his armpits and the beads forming on his forehead and upper lip. He knew that Olvegssen was purposely hanging him in suspense, and he did not want to ask him anything. He did not want to give the smug gray-haired gimel the satisfaction of hearing him speak. But he did not dare seem to be uninterested. And, if he did not say anything, he knew that Olvegssen would only smile and dismiss him.